


Petri Sciacchitano the Slave

by PrimroseBlack



Series: Boys in Yoga Pants and other drabbles [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Magic, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Bathing/Washing, Blood and Injury, Bubble Bath, Character Development, Developing Friendships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Force Choking, Friendship, Healing, Healthy Relationships, Illness, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Injury Recovery, M/M, Master/Slave, Men Crying, Nightmares, Pain, Past Abuse, Past Domestic Violence, Past Sexual Abuse, Pets, Physical Abuse, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Recovered Memories, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Slavery, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Room, Slavery, Sleeping Together, Verbal Abuse, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 08:12:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18339668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrimroseBlack/pseuds/PrimroseBlack
Summary: An injured, fleeing sex slave finds refuge in a magical cottage in the middle of a forest. But is it refuge, or another cage Petri finds himself trapped inside?“My name’s Nico. Can you tell me yours, please?”“Petri Sciacchitano.”Nico blinked, trying to decode the pronunciation.“Pee-tri Sca…Sca-cheeti…tano—that’s a mouthful.”





	Petri Sciacchitano the Slave

**Author's Note:**

> Another short story I wrote in high school and recently edited! Enjoy!

Nico was quite certain he wouldn’t find anything unusual on his daily walk with Honeydew. After all, he took his rabbit for a walk in the prairies every day, and every day, even if the duo took a new path, they would return to their little cottage in the woods, unharmed, affected only by the stillness of the land and the cool wind of late-spring.

Come to think of it, Nico’s day started a bit stranger than usual— this was where he should have noticed something amiss. Honeydew, his butterscotch colored Holland-lop rabbit woke him up several times throughout the night by throwing her bed around, noisily rearranging the blankets and tiny pillows to her liking. Amidst his drowsy delusions, Nico thought this to be a sign the rabbit was pregnant and fell back asleep worrying about where he was going to keep a litter of bunnies in his non-childproof cottage. Secondly, when Nico re-awoke in the late morning, he accidently dropped his favorite tea pot, watching in slow motion as it shattered into a million pieces on the floor. He spent twenty-minutes cleaning everything up while simultaneously making sure Honeydew didn’t drink the hot tea or step on the shards of glass.

These things were all unusual because Nico was not the type of person who got annoyed; typically, the world respected that and choose not to provoke him.

Despite the fact that he had been living alone for the majority of his life, Nico was an exceptionally thoughtful, poetic, sensitive soul who could never seem to turn away someone in need of help. He did, however, make sure to cunningly hide his modest cottage amongst the trees, not wanting robbers or witches to find him so easily. It seems, though, that someone or something in need of help always manages to find the house without effort. The idea of a magical welcome was altered on this strange day, moving so that its clock fingers were crooked—though not wrong, the time wasn’t exactly right, either.

Now in his late twenties, Nico planned to live out the remainder of his life in solitude, one with the Earth and the skies overhead. Of course, whenever he told himself this, an incident almost always followed; he then went through the process over again from the very beginning, wondering when he should retire, if he should at all, which then got him wondering what exactly he was retiring _from_.

Around sunset, Nico walked through the high grass of an empty prairie, watching Honeydew’s struggle. He could always tell where the rabbit was because the tops of the golden field moved according to her jumps. The scene always made him laugh, brightening his mood even further to add along his joy over being able to admire the sunset.

 _Perfect weather tonight_ , Nico thought to himself, scanning the endless land ahead. _The crops have nothing to offer, and yet, they grow back every year. Maybe I should start a garden here; that’ll give me something to do for the next thirty-years._

He stopped for a moment to appreciate the line of trees alongside the grassland—this was one of his favorite spots to come to, simply because of the intriguing concept of open-isolation. There may have been trees trapping the crops inside a certain boundary, but when he looked out towards the sun and the distant mountains full of edelweiss and other rosaries, the golden field seemed never-ending. It made Nico think about life in third-person.

 

_I wonder what it’s like from God’s point of view._

 

“Honeydew?” Nico called, not seeing the grass moving anywhere. “Where’d you go?”

Squinting, he saw movement about fifty-yards ahead, near a small rock formation in the middle of the prairie. _I must have zoned-out longer than I thought_ , he said silently, beginning to tromp through the waist-high weeds, following after his companion. She had stopped moving by now, but he remembered where he last saw her land and continued in that direction. They didn’t usually make it to the rock formation because Honeydew was incapable of seeing the ground ahead, which resulted in her hopping in endless circles around Nico’s stationed area.

But, as said before, this particular day was unusual.

 

Honeydew still hadn’t moved, and now being closer, Nico noticed a small patch of land where the grasses were either not growing or had been trampled down by something. This was where he thought Honeydew would be, since that area would allow her to avoid being annoyingly poked and prodded by the crops, not to mention, she would be able to see where she was going for once.

“Honeydew,” He called, almost laughing. “Did you finally find a spot where you c—”

The end of the comment became caught in the back of his throat. Honeydew had landed in the area— _that_ he was right about. Nico was shocked to learn that Mother Nature hadn’t been the force who flattened the crops. Not in the _slightest_.

 

On a patch of yellow grass curled-up in a ball laid an unconscious boy.

 

Nico stared in shock for a long minute, mind not sure what to make of this unfamiliar scene; after the minute passed, he tried blinking a few times and attempted to make the image disappear…but still it remained, and, if anything, became clearer. Honeydew was smelling the boy, her whiskers twitching with interest. Reality checked back into her owner’s mind, and Nico fell to his knees in a rush, brushing the rabbit aside so he could investigate further.

The boy, around fourteen or fifteen, he guessed, was definitely passed-out and not just sleeping. The evidence supporting this was the total limpness of his arms and legs, the latter of which, had such horrible bruising on the knee area Nico wanted to cover them up. His shock was still much too severe for him to act on anything, though, and his mind raced faster and faster, trying to put the puzzle pieces together.

 _He must have passed-out after traveling so far,_ Nico thought in a hurry, knowing that entering the woods through the prairie was the longest way possible, over a hundred miles worth. _Why would he be out here, I wonder..._

Now that Nico’s limbs were reacting to his mind’s signals again, he immediately checked for a pulse; although it was steady, he considered the boy’s heartbeat much too light to be considered healthy. As the loner went through theories in his head, he looked over the rest of the wilted body, but didn’t dare lay a finger any other limb, in fear of disturbing the boy’s exhaustion-induced slumber. His skin was of another kind, caramel brown, perfectly tanned, though blemished by cuts, scars, scratches, and dirt; his unique dark-colored hair, glowing with shine hinted that he was from a different class than the pale Nico. The rest of his figure was covered by a thin, dirt covered, dark red silk robe reaching well-past his thighs, but by the looks of things, the current state of the young man’s body, the article of clothing didn’t belong to him.

Nico became even more concerned when he gently turned the boy over on his back.

The hematomas on his knees and feet were paintings of unimaginable beauty compared to the damage done to his upper torso. Nico almost caught a hint of heaven when he looked at the youthful, babyish face, but it was quickly overshadowed by the sunken cheeks, the pink, enflamed skin staining them (possibly due to violence) and the various bite marks along his jaw, battered lips and upper neck. Although Nico couldn’t see past the breastbone, the boy’s naval and neck area remained exposed, and they were _covered_ in bloody, sickening black-and-blue hickeys. The most probable theory suddenly hit him like a ton of bricks, tightening the hold on his heart deep inside his chest.

 _He was…a sex slave?_ Nico wondered in shock, having to lean back on his knees from the amount of horror that surged through him. _How did he get all the way out here? How did he escape in the first place? Is he trying to find his family? Is he seriously injured?_

Nico decided to ask questions later. The boy needed help, and he needed it desperately.

“Hey…can you hear me?” Nico asked lightly, leaning towards the boy’s ear. There was no response. Not even a single muscle twitch. The slave was out cold. Nico took initiative, and, as smoothly as he could, slid his arms underneath the wandering boy and lifted him up; there was still no reaction, not even a mumble of discomfort. He was _painfully_ lightweight—Nico was surprised (and increasingly disgusted) at how little effort was required to carry him.

Once he had the boy lightly pressed against his chest, Nico noticed a new blood stain on his shirt; it had come from a cut on the boy’s left bicep, seeping through a hole in the silk. It didn’t look too serious, but judging on the rest of his condition, it wouldn’t take a major injury to finalize what the journey had started. Already, Nico felt the boy’s pulse decreasing; he still had yet to hear those weak little lungs produce a single breath.

“Honeydew! Come on!”

Nico began jogging through the grass, trying to keep his steps as light and even as possible to make the journey painless for his new patient—but when it occurred to him that some freakish pervert was probably looking for the boy, he decided to skip the gentleness and aggressively sprinted towards the direction of his cottage.

 _They could be on his trail right now! Faster, faster!_ He willed his legs, praying a herd of animalistic men wouldn’t come stampeding-up behind them. _His life depends on it. You want him to live, don’t you Nico? Hurry! Please hurry!_

As he prepared to burst into the forest in record time, the boy stirred in his arms.

Nico glanced down and was met by a panicked, wide-eyed expression. The boy’s hand tried to push off, but ended-up only loosely grasping Nico’s shirt; he made a distressed noise, trying to turn his head to see his surroundings. That was all the further he got.

“It’s okay, I’m—”

The boy’s head fell backwards, and he was reluctantly unconscious again.

When they made it to the cottage, Nico found himself glad the mysterious boy wasn’t awake. Normally when he guided people inside, he was welcoming the lost soul, assuring them he wasn’t some secret murderer who would eat their flesh after poisoning their tea; but at this time of the day, had the boy been able to see, the scene would have looked like a serial killer bringing his prey into a creepy little torture-house in the middle of nowhere. Diminishing light made the trees look eerie. The cottage seemed to hover over their forms, bearing down with suspicious intention. Honeydew somehow kept-up with her owner as Nico hurriedly brought the boy inside. That was when he decided to wake-up for good.

As Nico was bringing him downstairs, where he slept and bathed, the boy’s dark eyes fluttered open. Nico looked down immediately, giving him all the attention in the world; it seemed as if he had forced himself to wake-up.

 _Where am I?_ The boy thought groggily, looking around at the stone walls. The room was dark, save the light coming in from upstairs. _What is this place? Who’s holding me?! Where are they taking me?!_

“You’re going to be okay,” Nico said softly. “Do you understand?”

The boy _did_ understand, abet vaguely, but simply chose to ignore the lie in favor of frantically looking around the room. Forgetting to build windows in this part of the house really came back to bite Nico; any hope for escape vanished in the poor wanderer’s little broken heart.

He set the boy down in the middle of the small room just as the inspection finished. No windows…no openings…a suspicious cabinet…a bathtub…a sink…a desk—but…the thing that stuck out, the _only_ _thing_ the victim seemed to care about was the bed with a red and blue quilt lying over the top sheets. Beds: a place built for rest, sanctuary, but used for torturous competitions of filthy sin.

His conclusion wasn’t very optimistic.

“ _No-hoooo!!!_ ” The boy sobbed in a scratchy voice, his bloodshot eyes scrunching, filled with the most heart-wrenching tears Nico had ever seen. “No, no, _nooo_!!!”

Nico almost started to panic at the sudden peace-breaking scream; he hadn’t had action like this, so awful, so _cringe_ _worthy_ in his entire life. Usually lost travelers came wandering in with scars already stamped onto their souls—but this time, Nico was caught right in the eye of the storm; his heart didn’t know whether to be frightened or broken.

The boy had begun shaking in terror, every muscle tensed, stressed, his arms stuck in a weak defensive position to shield his tiny body—it could have been broken down easily, with the emotions of the victim so overwhelming and hesitant, despite being self-protecting. He released the rest of his aching sobs into a bubble of protection, his soul seemingly shattered. Nico’s suspicions about his origin were confirmed further.

“Shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay! I’m not going to hurt you, I promise!” The boy heard the man promise lightly. Nico reached out to touch his thin arm as an act of comfort. When the victim noticed the movement, his entire body froze, and the sobs elevated to agonizing screams of misery.

His fingernails gripped his head harshly, digging into them for some kind of release, _any_ kind of release. Although his voice was defensive and had a certain goal in mind (though its success rate was highly unlikely), his body was limp, gone, programmed, _manipulated_ by past experiences. It knew what was coming, and yet, it still met resistance.

 _No no no, not again, not again,_ the boy wept internally, endless possibilities flashing through his head. He curled himself up again, though he knew it was pathetic and useless. _No no no no no!!! I can’t take this!!! What are the chances?!!! I was in the middle of a field, why did I have to be found by another pervert?!! Why?!!! No no no no no no NO!!!_

Nico jerked his hand back instantly, just in time to see the boy press his thighs together tightly—so tightly they were trembling. He froze as much as the boy did and remained so for ten minutes, listening to the pleas of “Please don’t,” the sobbing, the coughing, and the terrified gasps.

_If hearing someone singing is a gift of alchemy…then hearing someone cry like he is must be torture from the princes of hell themselves._

Every time Nico made an attempt to speak, to calm the boy’s tattered nerves, the slave would give a violent lurch away then proceed to shield his head; he knew he would be beaten for resisting, but he just couldn’t help it—no one _willingly_ lets themselves be violated like that. No one in their right mind, at least. The slave had been wondering for a long, long time now, if _he_ was still in his right mind; he _had_ to be, in order for him to still be resisting this kind of treatment.

Nico only made one more effort to touch him, which resulted in the boy’s cries stopping, replaced by a loud gasp of dread. He watched the thin body tremble in anticipation for a few more minutes.

 _What do I do?_ Nico wondered in anguish, his own hands beginning to shake. _If he won’t let me near him (understandably), how am I supposed to help? I don’t want him to pass-out and wake-up naked in a bathtub. That would freak him out even more, if possible…_

Although the slave’s tears diminished gradually, Nico noticed right away.

The boy was shakily leaning on his left hand, facing the tub a few feet away. He hiccupped for air, and it sounded like he was now trying to be as quiet as possible. He was at a loss, his mind reaching a stopping point, due to exhaustion; there were numerous options, none of which resulted in him escaping the room. Not without at least offering the man some kind of reward for “rescuing” him.

 _What is he waiting for?!_ The boy thought in prolonged terror, trying to shift so the robe covered him more, though he knew that upset—or spurred on—a lot of men he had been with. _I hate it when they play games with me. I’m almost thankful for the ones who would use my body and leave in ten-minutes; at least they were ignorant men. It’s the smart ones you have to watch out for. They know exactly what you don’t want, so that’s exactly what they do._ He peeked his eyes open, trying to find the only other person in the room. _Even if you hide, they always guess._

_And they never guess wrong._

 

When he finally spoke, Nico listened intently. No other noise in the world, not even a banshee’s bellow nor a heavenly trumpet could have distracted his attention.

“I-I-I’m—I’m s- _sorry_ ,” The boy apologized sincerely, still looking away. “I w-won’t scr-eam—un-l-less…you w- _want_ me to…”

A few more cries escaped, but he brought his right hand up to buffer the noises, despite knowing that act would probably get him in even more trouble. _Why do you try?_ A part of his assaulted soul asked. _Haven’t you learned by now?_

 _But I don’t want him to touch me,_ he answered. _I’m scared…_

Nico kept staring at him, unable and unwilling to look at anything else. Years of experience should have left his mind free of shock, but this…this was just unreal. Despite the situation still being in peril, _enormously_ risky, he decided to speak, offering the poor kid some relief—God knows he needed some.

“Would you like to take a bath?”

The boy finally looked over, staring at the ground before hesitantly trailing-up to peer into Nico’s suspiciously kind green eyes.

“It’s a hot bath with special coals underneath and around the sides, so it stays warm consistently,” Nico explained as a distraction. “You should clean your wounds, too. Don’t want them getting infected.”

The boy was looking at him with such confusion it made Nico want to bash-in the heads of the people who had ripped wonder out of the slave’s life. His brown eyes widened suddenly, and his gaze went back to the ground, along with his posture. It was a sign of fearful submission; the boy learned it through the abuse, learned lowering himself was the only thing that made men give just the _slightest_ amount of mercy. Slight mercy was either better or ten-times worse than no mercy at all—he hadn’t figured that part out yet, though his experience told him he probably should have by this point in his short life.

 _I know this trick_ , he thought, heart dropping. _It’s happened before. They offer to give me a bath, only to start touching me once I’m in there. Then they say they need a bath, too, and it’s all downhill from there. Isn’t water supposed to be purifying?_

Nico knew this ashamed bow was about the only answer he would receive.

 

Cautiously, the loner stood.

 

Although the boy’s head was lowered, he watched Nico wearily from the corner of his eyes as the stranger went to turn the faucet on, filling the rock-made bathtub up with water and soap. The slave watched with shame, forcing back a sob. His insides already hurt enough…they were already tainted…did he really have to endure this much more?

Like the entire cottage, Nico had built the tub himself, using a combination of coals and heat to make the water warm, curtesy of a few magic spells to maintain it that way for long periods of time. He slid the second of three buffering sheets down into the tub, which would prevent the water from getting to the highest temperature. _Extreme heat probably wouldn’t be the best for his wounds and sensitive skin_ , Nico thought. _I would rather die than introduce a new type of pain to this kid._

Nico snapped his fingers quietly, watching as a nearby bubble container began pouring into the bath as he turned back around to face the boy.

The slave had been watching him, trying to figure out if he was about to be aggressively stripped or deceptively stroked, like the sicko actually cared about him, when in reality, he just wanted to savor the boy’s look of total humiliation. Men seemed to enjoy inflicting fear into him, proving their dominance, though, comparing bodies, it was painfully obvious who the dominant one was.

“It’ll be ready in a minute,” Nico explained quietly, now back in control of himself, taking a few steps left. “You can keep the robe on, if you want—would you like that? To keep the robe on?”

He kneeled-down, only a short foot away from the boy; the slave didn’t look but was listening in horror. He refused to give an answer, out of both fear and stubbornness.

 _To be expected_ , Nico thought grimly. _Even if he did answer, I’m sure he’s used to receiving the opposite of what he prefers. He won’t dare tell me what he wants. He’s probably wondering how much he’ll be punished for not saying anything_.

_What’s a question he can’t just answer with yes or no to…_

After contemplating for a moment, staring at the shaking figure, Nico inched himself a little closer.

“My name’s Nico. Can you tell me yours, please?”

 _PLEASE_ , the boy repeated embarrassingly. _Why do they always say ‘please’ like I have a choice? Do I ever have a choice? Is this another game?_

The escaped slave peered-up to check. His brown eyes were full of tears and pain, and yet, Nico noticed, he seemed to be the slightest bit pleased at being asked. His mouth opened, and a soft, clear whisper came out.

“Petri Sciacchitano.”

Nico blinked, trying to decode the pronunciation.

“Pee-tri Sca…Sca-cheeti…tano—that’s a mouthful,” He chuckled, waving it off.

The slave named Petri said nothing, but let his gaze linger a while longer.

Nico and the boy both glanced over at the bath, seeing that it was almost full with bubbles; the more magical of the two stopped the water, then lit a single candle and set it on the sink across the small room; the light from upstairs was quickly vanishing due to the sunset setting across the horizon. He turned back around to look at Petri, biting his lip nervously.

_Now comes the tricky part._

Once again, Nico advanced towards Petri slowly, holding his hands up to show that he meant no harm.

“The bath’s ready…” He announced. “Should I carry you, or can you make it over here?”

Petri’s eyes were locked on the tub, a haunted expression looming over the dark chocolate color.

“There’s lots of soaps you can use…and the water will stay warm the entire time,” Nico tried convincing him. “Like I said…you can keep the robe on, if you want. Or you can take it off when you get in, it’s up to you.”

The boy’s gaze flickered to Nico’s at the last phrase, expression telling stories of broken promises before. _I bet he’s never been told that in his life,_ Nico thought sadly. _It’s up to you…it’s your decision…do what you want…_

Petri hugged himself. His better judgement failed him, and he began to stand.

His legs shook erratically while the slave kept his head down the entire journey; when he came close enough, Nico held out his hand to help the boy step down into the tub—Petri froze at that gesture and looked at Nico’s empty hand in slight confusion. He had never seen such an offer before, unaware that it most often suggested kindness, which he also had no knowledge on. Nico initiated the contact, lightly grabbing the boy’s tiny, bruised hand.

Petri let himself be guided, beyond caring at this point. He always felt that way after the first second of physical contact, and it would last up until he was being violated again. A second later, he was sitting down in the heated water, letting out a few trembling breaths.

“Good…” Nico said encouragingly, releasing his hand as the boy curled inwards on himself again. The next question was daring, but he said it anyway. “Do you want to take your robe off so you can get clean?”

Petri looked up at him, that poor little expression returning to one filled with fear, the tears still fresh on his cheeks. Up close, he looked a lot more battered. Nico received no answer and decided to back off with the questions; none the less, he desperately wanted to help Petri rid the evidence of his scarred past, so he casually grabbed a bathing cup and scooped-up some water.

“I built this place all by myself,” Nico told Petri quietly while pouring the water on the slave’s bare shoulder, where the silk robe had slid down. “It only took me a month, but that was probably the longest month of my life.” _I bet his definition of a long period of time is much longer than mine…_ “I’ve been living here by myself for about seven years now. It’s nice, quiet...peaceful.”

He poured more water on Petri’s arm, even though it was useless, because the robe didn’t really allow the water to do its cleansing job. The boy hadn’t stopped tensing his muscles since he awoke—not that Nico expected him to be calm, relaxed…but since bathing would be a better experience for Petri if he wasn’t so clenched up, Nico whispered a spell under his breath while touching the surface of the bath water, waiting for a few seconds before scooping the new and improved liquid into another cupful. Petri didn’t understand why his muscles were suddenly attempting to relax, forcing knots to relieve their ache underneath his skin as water cascaded down his shoulder.

“How did you come to be all the way out here?”

Although dripping droplets and hushed splashing were the only noises before, as they were now, the room suddenly became eerie with silence. Petri looked down where his bruised knees were hidden from his sight—he hadn’t moved since stepping into the now pink stained water. He knew he wasn’t allowed to. He would be moved whenever the man put his plan into action.

 _I jumped_ , Petri thought. _But if I tell him how I escaped, he’ll work even harder to keep me here. I can’t tell him that…I can’t have that happen…_

 _Maybe he’s even more nervous because I’m standing behind him, where he can’t see me_ , Nico wondered to himself. He waited as the boy fought an inner battle with himself.

“I wandered,” Petri finally whispered.

“Wandered away from your captor?”

The slave’s head bolted around at that comment, but he quickly caught the mistake and corrected his posture. Nico felt bad for causing him anxiety. A few seconds later, as the twenty-something loner was realizing that the bubbles were starting to vanish, revealing the dirtying water underneath, Petri suddenly lifted his hands up and slowly began to peel the robe off his shoulders.

 _Let’s get this over with,_ he thought, emitting a sob. _The first time’s always the worst._

Immediately, Nico grabbed the bubble potion and poured the remainder of it into the water, having no time for magic—this way neither of them would be able to see Petri’s lower regions when he took the robe off all the way. A small favor, but indeed a meaningful one.

“Want me to hang that up?” Nico asked as Petri held the wet fabric in his hands. He hesitated, quickly thinking the situation over before holding it out in Nico’s direction.

 _Mental note: throw this in the fire place later_.

Nico discovered more injures on a completely nude Petri than he would have ever liked to see on a human being.

Since he was deathly afraid of moving an inch from his stiff position (although his muscles had totally relaxed for unknown reasons), Petri’s back and upper torso remained laid-out right in front of his “abductor.” He tried not to care. It didn’t matter what he looked like anymore. If he was spotless (which he usually wasn’t), they would comment on how he shouldn’t be, and if he was covered in bruises and marks as he was now, they would comment on how “owned” and “filthy” he looked. Other times they would just say how pretty he was, what a good boy he was—then there were worse days, somehow, when someone was in a bad mood and Petri was somehow always the cause of it. Then he would be told how disgusting he was, how his actions were outrageously lewd, how hideous his body was, how he _enjoyed_ being marked and hit, how he was running out of time to live because he wouldn’t always be young and useful.

There was no way around their words. Petri knew, because just when he thought Satan couldn’t come up with more ways to plague his soul, someone would say something like that and erase what little hope Petri had that someday, he would be able to have someone look at him without trembling in fear, without wondering what part of his body they were going to pick-on now.

The first noticeable injury in Nico’s investigation was a set of fresh red scratch marks on Petri’s sides, obviously from human fingernails. Nico’s eyes trailed over the rest of his body slowly, heart aching every time he caught sight of blood or bruises; there were many welts, some darker, some lighter, spread out in a specific, disturbing pattern across his shoulders, most likely from leather of some kind. On his skinny ribs (which poked out from underneath his skin), he noticed hand marks, like Petri had been forcibly held in place—this mark was a reoccurring blemish on the boy’s Italian skin. There were bumps, old white scars and burn marks, small puncture wounds that never fully healed, badly sewn cuts amongst various other wounds, all of which made Nico sick. He coughed to relieve the tension, but continued investigating Petri’s injuries, even though deep down he knew the worst ones could not be seen, touched, or washed away with even the most magical soap their world had to offer.

Of all the indications of abuse he saw, Petri’s neck had to be the worst.

Not only was it covered in sinful, unmerciful hickeys, but now that Nico was up-close, he noticed the fading scar of a fabric burn right underneath Petri’s jaw, and there wasn’t a spot on his throat that was left clean, unmarked. Thankfully, Nico was so unnerved by the sight he couldn’t move—had he been able to, he would have reached out and touched the flaws before realizing how much of a panic that would send Petri into. Evidence suggested the boy had been forced to do rough, unholy, inhumane acts with even filthier people.

Nico tried not to think about it. He tried not to think about what the water was washing away, and what was probably swimming _amongst_ the water as well, now that Petri was being cleaned. He tried but failed. He tried not to think about the relentless assault on Petri’s body. He tried not to think about how hard he had cried _then_. He tried not to think about how much worse those sobs had been. He tried not to. He tried not to think about Petri being pushed down, forced into submission, forced to sit back while someone… _hurt_ him, for lack of better term, hurt him in a way that can’t really ever be described in words.

A wave of nausea overcame Nico’s stomach, but he swallowed the vomit down and reached for a washcloth lying by the tub. His hand could no longer resist the trembles.

“Is it okay if I wash your back?”

Petri shifted, then nodded once. His body was limp again, instinctively trying to put-off the pain for as long as possible. Nico dipped the rag into the water, and, as gently as humanly possible, began wiping down Petri’s abused skin. The slave flinched when Nico’s hand came in contact with his body, so to put him at ease, Nico began rambling.

“You know…the day I finished this house, I came down here, got in the tub and didn’t leave for twelve hours. I just sat here, marveling at my work until I realized how exhausted I was. Long story short, I accidently fell asleep and woke-up the next morning with hypothermia, because that was before I decided to make my own hot bath.” He laughed lightly, dabbing away a stain of blood. “Here,” Nico handed Petri another cloth. “You can wash the rest of your body, if you want.”

The boy stared at the gesture for a long moment before slowly accepting the cloth. _Why?_ He thought weakly. _So you can just dirty me up again when I’m finished?_

For a few minutes, Nico let there be silence; Petri was wetting down the front side of his torso at an extremely slow pace, releasing whimpers every now and then. Nico knew this was because he was afraid to make any sudden movements, believing he would be punished if he did something ‘out of his place.’ His skin was incredibly soft, which was incredible to Nico, considering the unbearable torture he’d been inflicted with over the past however many months, maybe even years; aside from the rough scars and patches of scratches, Petri’s body was as it should have been in its youth—innocent, smooth and untouched by the itchy hairs of puberty.

“Is the water too hot for you?” Nico asked in a hushed tone.

Petri shrugged, staring at his raw, dry hands. He had a strong desire to wash the skin off the bone, then drink the bubbles until his mouth could no longer taste.

“Okay. Tell me if I scrub too hard.”

Nico knew he wouldn’t but wanted to put the idea in his head anyway. _He probably thinks I’m teasing or testing him_ , he concluded. _How do I eliminate that distrust? I can’t. How can I at least try?_

“How do you pronounce your last name again?”

“Sciacchitano.” Petri whispered, aimlessly cleaning his wrists.

“Skee-ahc-chi-tah-no.” Nico repeated. “That’s Italian, right?”

The boy nodded twice this time. Nico considered it a victory and decided he wasn’t cleaning the boy’s back efficiently; he grabbed a bottle of body wash, pouring it down the boy’s bare torso smoothly. Petri tried to force his wince down, pained at the sting in some of the deeper scratches. Showing pain was one of the worst forms of humiliation—he had to perform it quite often, as it was a collective favorite among the men who owned him.

“Sorry,” Nico apologized gently. “Just gotta make sure all the wounds are cleaned out.”

He took his other hand and laid it on a stunned-Petri’s shoulder to hold him still, which provoked a hysterical response—the boy nearly jumped right out of the bath, but Nico kept his hand in the same position, soothingly running a finger along his skin, although, when he thought about it, that was probably the _last_ way Petri wanted to be touched.

Some of the water had splashed out of the tub; Nico had only planned on briefly looking at the puddle to make a note to clean it up later, but when he glanced up again, his eyes caught on Petri’s. He had obviously noticed the horrifying mistake before Nico did.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

“I’M SORRY!” Petri choked-out in a desperate squeal. “I-I’ll clean it up, _I_ _swear_!”

He frantically started crawling out of the tub, splashing more water in the process, but Nico managed to keep him down.

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” He soothed, making the boy look back at him with bulging eyes. “I do that all the time—it’s no big deal.”

Petri was beyond speechless upon comprehending those words. He didn’t believe he had heard right until Nico failed to punish him with a loud slap to his cheek. For a long minute, he was unable to form any noise—not even a yelp or a whimper escaped his lips. Never had Petri ever heard the words “It’s no big deal” with such… _sincerity_. Before he could filter, the boy asked a daring question.

“Y…You’re not mad?” He whispered fearfully, tears pooling at the corner of his eyes again.

“Not at all.”

Nico resumed his task like nothing had happened, reminding himself to be light with his touch as he rubbed the dirt and other substances off Petri’s body. For a few seconds, he felt those fawn brown eyes staring at him intently—Petri turned back around, gripping the sides of the tub tightly, mind reeling with confusion. _I don’t…I don’t understand…_

The soap offered a thin wall between Nico’s hand and the slave’s skin; Nico silently wondered if Petri could feel that, too, and whether or not he was thankful for it. He detected the abused boy’s pounding heartbeat—the sensation of touching someone was foreign to Nico, unlike Petri, who learned not to enjoy the sensation under any circumstance.

 _I feel…helpful_ , Nico thought as he ran his hand up and down Petri’s shoulder blade, wiping away the dirt and blood stains. _But does Petri feel the same way?_

He knew the answer to that even without asking a second time. Petri was still sitting stiffly, which couldn’t have been an easy task, judging on his level of exhaustion and the magic of the earlier potion. Nico was surprised as ever to hear his whisper-like voice; at first, he thought he had imagined it.

“May I…May I lie down please, sir?” Petri asked, voice shaking as if he would be starved and beaten for requesting something.

“Sure. And you don’t have to call me sir—here,” Nico shifted so that he was kneeling near the side of the tub. “I’ll help you.”

He lowered Petri’s body down until everything from his neck-down was underneath the warm water. The boy shivered from the contact; it reminded him all too much of when he was almost drowned during—

“ _Th-ank you_ ,” Petri all-but sobbed in relief, closing his eyes tightly. Nico could only hum in response, surprised, but pleased; he began to wonder what he should do, now that he no longer had access to the most abused part of Petri.

 _Well…_ Nico thought, his mind darkening as his eyes drifted lower. _I wouldn’t say that was the MOST abused part of his body…_

“Petri,” He said slowly. “I’m going to wash your feet now, okay?”

The little Italian boy’s eyes opened wide. He stared at Nico, trying to remember which trick this was; the ending of the cruel prank was obvious, but in what style would the man carry it out? What was he going to do to get to that point? Petri’s heart went off in alarm when Nico reached into the tub and pulled his tattered foot out of the water. He covered his face to avoid seeing the hand start creeping up his leg, getting higher and higher. He couldn’t stand to _see_ it happen, not again—but he told himself that _every_ time.

Only, this time, nothing happened.

Petri waited a few more seconds, heart clenched in a fit of anxiety, chest unintentionally pausing its work of breathing; still, nothing happened. The hand was _literally_ … _washing_ his foot. The blood was coming off, and the dirt was mixing with the water. It didn’t even hurt that much, though the soles of his tattered feet were full of sores and torn blisters. Petri just about had a seizure when a particular brush with the cloth on the arch of his foot made his stomach clench and sent a silly tremble down those sensitive nerves in his leg. His toes curled, and, in a hurry to see what the hell was happening, what these strange sensations were, Petri peeked out from behind his hands and saw Nico almost… _smiling_? Was that what they called it?

The slave flinched again and let out a gasp when the wet rag came in contact with his ankle; Nico’s strokes were gentle, his scrubbing the opposite of harsh. Petri was alarmed by this _intimate_ setting; it put his guard down, and that was not something he could afford at the moment, even though knowing the blows were coming didn’t lessen their damaging effect on his mental state. Sometimes they helped the physical pain go away, but only sometimes.

 _It must be a game_ , Petri realized. _My God…this guy’s almost as sick as the others…_

Nico hoped he wasn’t hurting the poor kid. The only other person he had ever washed was Honeydew; _that’s the same kind of gentle, isn’t it?_ He wondered, softly running his finger across a dark bruise on Petri’s shin. The boy was still shaking in his grasp, but made no attempts to pull away, so Nico continued all the way up to those blackened knees, then began the process over on the other leg. Petri forced himself to not enjoy himself, not even a little—he wanted to clean his thighs, that _entire_ _area_ , but never for a _second_ actually considered _doing_ it _._ Like he would ever get that chance…

Nico received no encouragement or open-gratitude; by this, he was not offended, nor did it cause anger at Petri for being so “inconsiderate.” He understood. He wasn’t asking for anything, and he didn’t need a sentimental reward such as a smile or a nod—he just wanted to help. When the magician finished washing Petri’s legs, Nico stood, getting another idea.

“Time to wash your hair.”

That phrase held a different meaning to Petri than it did to Nico, the slave sitting straighter as his eyes widened drastically, linking two and two together.

“Do you prefer strawberry or orange?” Nico asked immediately, trying to calm the boy down. Petri looked between the two shampoo bottles, but otherwise didn’t respond. “You seem like an orange type of guy.”

Nico settled himself behind Petri, who had slumped back underneath the water, defeated by confusion. He still hadn’t figured out the game, and it was starting to make him increasingly anxious…but when Nico poured water over his hair and started rubbing the shampoo into the boy’s rough scalp, Petri couldn’t help but let his guard down once again. He shamefully admitted to himself that the sensation of having his hair washed felt _nice_.

Nico’s hands made sure every inch of Petri’s coarse hair was lathered-up with suds, and his fingers were moving gently, swooshing and pressing against the slave’s scalp, ensuring no dirt or grass remained. Petri didn’t have the faintest memory of someone doing this for him, or even a memory of him doing it to himself—he was only ever allowed to soak in the water, not wash himself, even though he was warned plenty of times that if he came down with a viral or infectious disease, his “leash” would be abruptly cut. That leash may as well have been the red string of fate.

Amidst the deep shampooing job, Nico noticed there were many injuries to Petri’s head, just like the rest of the pubescent boy’s body. As he washed, Nico found a few bare spots where hair had obviously been torn out, a few punctures, some soft areas and more than one spot where the hair literally _fell out_ the second Nico tried massaging the locks. He felt his heart sink deeper into a sympathetic depression for the boy as he quickly and quietly finished up cleaning Sciacchitano’s hair, following up by wrapping the cut on his bicep as to stop the bleeding. Tucked deep inside his inner-turmoil, Nico hadn’t noticed that Petri was seconds away from falling asleep.

“All done,” Nico announced, causing Petri to thrash in the water. “Woah woah, it’s okay, it’s okay!” He tried soothing him. “You must’ve just dozed-off…it’s okay!”

 _He’s lying!_ Petri accused silently, looking over his shoulder at Nico. _What did he do? Did he tie my legs? Did he set something up over on the bed?_

Finding none of these things to be true, Petri realized he looked far too ambitious, and set-out to become a submissive once again. Once Nico was sure Petri wasn’t suffering from (another) panic attack, he stood-up and went to retrieve a big fluffy towel, made from only the finest of fabrics nature had offered.

“Do you need help getting out?” Nico offered innocently.

Petri actually shook his head at that, hands holding the sides of the tub like he wanted to get out, but some invisible border prevented him from doing so. Nico held the towel up as he approached.

“Okay; I’ll hold this out, and you grab it when you’re ready.” He instructed, unintentionally shocking the slave to his very core. Sciacchitano sat in the tub for a long moment, staring at his bruised hand; he was thinking the past hour over, his memory clear, as it always was, ever since his first time, three-years-ago—upon being granted a gift of modesty, and upon actually believing the current situation…his mind realized something, something similar to a miracle.

 _I was wrong_.

Nico heard Sciacchitano exit the water. He kept his eyes shut and head turned, preventing him from seeing even more of Petri’s abused body. The towel was taken from his grip, and after a second, he deemed the situation secure enough to look back. Petri’s cheeks were flushed, now, though no part of him was showing that Nico hadn’t already seen, towel limply held to cover most of the slave’s lower torso. The humiliation was already fresh in Petri’s mind, what he expected Nico to be thinking about, what he was already seeing; he crouched down on the bathroom rug laid-out on the rock flooring, hoping to shield most of his naked self from his liberator. Nico’s legs went past him, only to return a second later; he bent down to Petri’s level and pressed a wet rag against his lips.

“Some blood here,” He explained briefly, wiping away more evidence.

Petri was glad.

Nico tossed the rag aside, making another fluffy towel appear like magic and began patting Petri down, encasing him in the most amazing warmth he had ever experienced—for a moment, he almost forgot that the sensation of warmth was his mortal enemy, forcing chill into an even more unpleasant experience after having heat ripped away. Within a minute, little Petri was dry, and the towel Nico controlled was draped around his shoulders, the other lying across the boy’s legs.

“Stay here for a minute,” Nico instructed tenderly, jogging towards the stairs. “I’ll go get you some clean clothes.”

 

He disappeared, and Petri felt nervous again.

 

 _Clothes…that could mean a lot of things_ , he thought sadly. _It could be a sick outfit made for girls, or it could be a slave outfit…_

Petri wasn’t allowed too much time to worry, because Nico returned not a minute later holding a blue flannel shirt and lighter blue pajama pants.

“They’re probably too big for you, but it should be okay,” He said, unbuttoning the shirt. Just as he did, a pattern of strange footsteps thumped down the stars, noise telling Petri they were heading right towards them. It sounded like someone slow, someone who liked torture, someone who would smile as soon as they raked their eyes over the young body in front of them—the slave’s vision was immediately covered by black spots of panic, footsteps getting louder, breaking his heart with every step.

Petri stumbled back with a whine, and the culprit emerged.

Honeydew came hopping into the room. Petri blinked three times before realizing the threat was simply a small bunny; a rather _cute_ bunny, if he was being honest. It hopped over to them but seemed more interested in Petri than Nico, stopping in front of the slave cheerfully; Sciacchitano stared down at the curious creature as it lifted its paws up and set them down on his bare toes, adorable padded feet pressing into Petri’s skin.

“This is Honeydew,” Nico smiled, petting the bunny’s ear affectionately. _Honeydew? What does that mean?_ “You can pet her if you want; she’s harmless.”

Petri stared at Nico to see if that was a lie; it wasn’t, and he had a sudden urge for someone to look at him like Nico was looking at this “Honeydew.” Hesitantly, the boy reached out and stroked the bunny’s head; it moved to smell his hand, but quickly went back to sniffing the towel covering his legs. _Soft_ , Petri thought. _I don’t think I’ve ever felt something so soft before._

He absentmindedly let Nico slip his arms into the large shirt and button the front, top to bottom; it was gentle and warm on his mistreated skin, but they hit another roadblock as soon as the issue of pants came along. Nico didn’t want to make Petri stop petting Honeydew—he _really_ didn’t. Not when this side of the slave was so innocent compared to every other reaction he had up to this point. At least the cut on his arm hadn’t required stitches…Nico wasn’t sure he could handle seeing the boy thrash around on the ground as he stuck a needle through his precious skin. This thinking process wasn’t helping the current dilemma; the magician still didn’t have a clue how he should word what he wanted to ask—and he desperately wanted an option that wouldn’t end with Petri crying.

The Italian boy glanced-up, sensing something amiss. Nico held the pants out to him.

“Here you go.”

Petri swallowed nervously, as did Nico.

“May I…p-put them _on_?”

Sciacchitano cowered down instantly, expecting a smack and some harsh choice of words, even though he could have _sworn_ the gesture had hinted that yes, he _could_ wear the pants. Nico lowered his voice and tried to stop his hand from shaking.

“Yes…I think we’d both feel more comfortable if you did.”

Petri couldn’t argue with that—nor could he cower from it.

 

Once Petri put the pajama pants on, Nico left again, saying he would be back with some dinner. In the meantime, Petri thought about his feelings, his new clothes and Honeydew. He sat by the bunny’s bed (the pet really had its own _bed_ , which was incredible to Petri) and gently stroked its velvet fur—he very much liked the butterscotch color; it was a calming hue to him, somehow. The boy wondered how he was able to pet the animal so nicely when he himself had obviously never been affectionately touched in his life. Maybe it was human instinct.

 _I remember my mother_ , Petri recalled suddenly. The image was too warped with terror for him to see clearly, to distinguish any color or smile, but he knew that yes…at one point in his short life, he probably _had_ been hugged, kissed, cherished, treated like a human being. The thought only brought tears to his eyes, instead of warmth to his heart.

Nico was back in no time, and, as he promised, had a plate full of food; by that time, Petri’s eyes had begun to slip closed again, so he barely noticed what was going on, content to rest his head against Honeydew’s bed and sleep forever. Nico was seconds away from disturbing his slumber again but caught himself this time—he decided to set the plate on the desk, so Petri could eat it later. For now, he would let the boy sleep.

Thinking the slave was more asleep than he actually was, Nico bent down and lifted him up bridal style. When Petri opened his eyes, the only thing he saw was a bed—and he was being laid-down on top of it.

A strange, yet none-the-less agonizing noise burst from his lips as he squirmed frantically, desperately trying to escape the clutches of whoever was getting ready to rape and play with him. Unintentionally, right where he escaped to was where he had been trying to avoid being: in the middle of the bed.

“NO!!!”

“Petri—”

The boy bolted around, shoving himself against the stone wall. “Stop, don’t touch me!!!” He wailed.

“Petri, it’s just me!” The voice said soothingly. “It’s Nico, remember?”

 _Nico…Nico…I think…_ Petri thought deeply, shaking himself out of the living nightmare. _Nico gave me a bath…he has a bunny…he gave me clothes to wear…he made my foot feel funny…I think…I think he’s…_

His breathing slowed, and the image of Nico became clear. He was holding his hands forward again, showing that they were harmless, they had no hidden weapons besides their strength. Petri felt a strike of guilt; here this stranger was, bringing him food, giving him shelter, and yet he continuously betrayed them with freak-outs. He failed this task, and yet, Nico continued on like nothing had happened.

Petri forced himself to recover and gave Nico a brave, borderline-trusting look that almost made him faint. _Is he…apologizing?_ Nico wondered in shock, watching as the ex-slave let his tired body relax on the bed, his small chest bone attempting to get air flowing again. _What on earth is he apologizing for?_

“I…” Petri began weakly, throat dry with shame. “I…I’m sorry…I didn’t…”

He gave a huff of frustration, closing his eyes tightly. Nico wasn’t sure what else to do, so he gave the boy some space and let him slowly recover from the episode. Once Petri had pulled himself into a sitting position, and before he could become frightened over his location again, Nico handed him the plate of food. As the boy sat there, dumbfounded over the amount of content placed on the plate, Nico went back upstairs and returned with a huge glass of water. He set it down on the desk, then looked at Sciacchitano curiously, silently wondering why he wasn’t eating.

And so, to make up for everything, Petri decided to eat.

His shrunken stomach, not used to such rich, _non-dry_ foods couldn’t handle as much as he would have liked. Many of the sensations reminded him of his experiences, but he managed to push them away for a short while. After finishing the eggs, the sausages and most of the hash browns, Petri felt sick; he felt even worse than before as he dared to glance over at Nico, who was lying beside Honeydew’s bed petting her velvety ears like they were priceless objects.

“N…Nico?” _Might as well come clean. He’ll be making me throw-up in a few minutes anyway…I guess…if I admit to guilt, he’ll like that._ “I can’t eat anymore,” Petri confessed in shame. This was a different kind of shame, he realized, but it wasn’t any better than the other kind.

“Mk.”

Nico rolled himself off the floor and came over, taking the plate and setting it back onto the desk. Petri expected harsh words, but they never came, just like the last times. Instead, actions proved his earlier theories to be correct—the boy watched, his heart shattering when it fell into his stomach as Nico went around the room, placing candles here and there.

_No…it can’t…it can’t…_

“Do you want to sleep with a lot of candlelight, just a little, or none at all?”

Nico barely finished the sentence before he turned around and saw Petri crying, covering his mouth and squishing himself against the wall in agony.

“Petri,” He said, alarmed. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Taking a step towards the boy proved to be a great mistake.

“I’m sorrrry!” Petri wailed, choking over his words. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!...” He gasped for air as Nico tried getting closer. “I’ll be a good boy, I _swear_ , please don—”

He lost his voice, suffering over the mere memory of candlelight, all the times he had been set-up like a toy, treated like a toy, then cruelly handled like some kind of sex-crazed lover. Petri didn’t know what he was saying; his mind simply repeated the line that sometimes got him out of trouble.

“I’ll be a good boy…I’m _so-rry_ …I’ll be good, just _don’t_ — _don’t_ make it hurt, _please_ sir…”

Had anyone walked by, or had the angels been listening (if they could bear anymore torture), it would have sounded like a child crying, like they had lost their mother and were stranded in a forest all alone. _That_ kind of crying. Out of control, absolute _howling_ , not to mention, the choking noises a child sometimes makes when sobbing, caught-up in the tears, the monstrous amount of fear their hearts surrender to…that’s what Nico heard. That’s what he heard from a _teenage_ _boy_.

And he had to put a stop to it, before his own heart surrendered to the darkness.

“Petri,” Nico said, so softly he barely heard himself. “Petri, it’s okay…I’m _not_ going to hurt you, okay? It’s just me…I’m not going to hurt you…I would _never_ do that to you, okay, Petri?”

As he spoke, Nico inched his way towards the bed where the boy was doubled-over, clutching his stomach harshly while whimpering to himself.

“Petri…” Nico whispered. His hand was only a few centimeters away from the slave’s head. “Petri…it’s okay…no one’s going to hurt you anymore…I promise.”

He came into contact with the soft Italian hair, immediately stroking it as he did to Honeydew’s fur: gently, and with extreme kindness, like he was touching a priceless artifact. There was no possible way Petri could misinterpret that, because there was no chance he had _ever_ had his hair touched in a manner such as this.

Petri stilled almost instantly.

Nico talked him down with soothing words and even managed to get the boy to lie under the covers. It was dark enough in the room where falling asleep would be easy, especially for how tired poor little Petri was. Nico stroked his hair for a while, then dipped his other hand in the cup of water, holding it against Sciacchitano’s forehead, cooling him down—all the while, Petri kept whimpering thank-you over and over again, even though Nico didn’t need to hear it.

He knew it made the him feel better, and so let Petri say the words until he fell into a deep sleep.

 

 

Nico himself slept on the ground beside the bed; talking to someone other than Honeydew had taken a toll on him as well. He fell asleep almost as quickly as Petri did, but after about an hour, he was woken by the sound of painful dry-heaving. Nico bolted-up, stumbling onto the bed where Petri was clutching his throat, eyes watering while the boy was simultaneously trying to get off the mattress. Even through the darkness, Nico noticed the brown hues full of more panic and fear than ever before.

Without even thinking about it, he knew what was going through Petri’s mind.

“Petri!”

The boy was crying along with the dry-heaves, which forced the rest of his body to twitch and writhe in extreme stress. His head was trembling, and, knowing none of this was good for Petri, Nico did the only thing he could think of.

“Petri! It’s okay!” Nico wrapped the boy in his arms, trying to get him to look up. “Petri, no one’s hurting you—you’re okay, now.”

He continued to choke and squirm desperately, making horrible noises in between; it was like the slave was being gagged by some invisible force, but the higher probability was that he _had_ been choked before and was now reliving the memory in vivid detail.

“Ple-ase—” Petri sputtered. “St-op—stop—”

“ _Petri_ ,” Nico begged, prying the boy’s hands away from his own throat. “Petri, listen to me. Listen to me, Petri. You have to listen to me now, okay? Do you understand?”

After hearing his name so often, Petri finally seemed to comprehend that he wasn’t being choked; the men he was usually raped by _never_ said his name. They didn’t even _know_ his real name. But that didn’t stop a different type of panic from overwhelming his exhausted immune system.

Petri leaned over and threw-up over the floor.

Once the heaving stopped, he let himself be held, and began tearfully confessing _everything_ to Nico.

“H-He was h-h-olding m-me d-down!” Petri sobbed, gripping Nico’s hand tightly as he stared-up at the saint. He wanted to tell him his grief so there would be no more secrets between them. “He did that e-e- _every_ night, b-ut this time he was ch- _choking_ _me_!”

Nico couldn’t find it in him to do anything but listen to the painful words while gently stroking Petri’s cheek and arms. The boy’s voice was muffled by the sobs, but Nico could understand him perfectly.

“A-And then,” Petri sniffled painfully, pinching his eyes shut as his chest jolted with cries. “T-hen he choked me _harder_ and _harder_ , while he was _inside me_!!!” Here Petri was unable to continue, falling off into terrible screams. Nico’s grip tightened, and somehow, the boy went on seconds later. “A-and then! he kept saying how much I l-liked it, how I liked _everything_ he did to me, h-how I liked being his, h-how I liked being his little toy, how I liked being his little cock sla _hhut_!!!”

Petri’s voice went higher-pitched as the final description effortlessly ripped a loud, hysterical screaming sob from him. His words diminished, overcome with emotion on every word, but he kept going. _Something_ kept him going. Nico was bawling, now, trying to squeeze the pain out of Petri until there was nothing left but a happy, innocent little teenage boy, alive only in their imagination.

“I just want to wash it away…” Sciacchitano cried. “I need to wash it away, right now, I need to have another b-bath, _please,_ Nico…please let me have another ba-ath!”

After the last few words, Petri was no longer able to speak, and held his arms up, signaling Nico to hold him. He did so—and it never went through Petri’s head that there was a possibility of being rejected.

Nico cradled the weeping, mistreated boy in his arms, softly rocking him back and forth. His heart was broken, but the strings were still attached to one another, which is what allowed him to force the ache in his voice away and whisper soothing words into Petri’s hair.

“It’s okay, now…don’t worry, Petri. It’s not your fault…you’re not anyone’s toy. No one would call you a slut for what you’ve been through...you can have another bath in the morning, don’t worry…”

When Petri would give a particularly hard sob, Nico would press his lips against his hair harder and hold him even closer.

“Shh…it’s over, Petri, they’re not going to hurt you anymore. You’re okay…you’re okay, Petri…you’re okay now, buddy…”

After an endless amount of time, never to be determined or measured by life itself, Nico noticed Petri’s cries had been reduced to sniffles and huffs of air, although the haunted expression on his youthful face remained. He looked down at the boy, who was tiredly trying to maintain his grip on Nico’s shirt; Petri’s thoughts at this time were not very clear. He only relied on instinct—more specifically, his child-like instinct to hold onto the one person who was offering him comfortability. _Real_ comfortability, for the first time in his entire existence.

“N-Nico,” Petri whispered, voice hoarse from all the events of the past few hours. “When am I…going to have to… _repay_ you?”

Nico stared right back at the boy, forcing his lips to stay in a straight line, as to not let his own tears fall again.

“Never,” He replied. “Now go to sleep, Petri.”

Petri blinked a few more tears out, but these were noticeably different than the ones Nico, and Petri himself, was used to. A foreign expression was plastered on his face. Neither could place what it was, there wasn’t a single word _imaginable_ to describe its appearance—but after Petri grabbed his savior’s hand, holding it like a glass statue, they no longer cared what the word was.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Petri whispered shakily, but with all his little heart. “ _Thank you, Nico_.”

Nico’s heart reassembled itself, and, a few minutes later, Petri Sciacchitano, the freed slave had fallen asleep in his arms, looking relaxed for the first time in years, tiny water droplets gathered in the thick strands of his clumped eyelashes. Nico cried a little bit after witnessing the peaceful sight but made sure he was never loud enough to wake Petri. _This…is a tiny step_ , the magician thought, peering down at the fragile boy lying in his arms. _A tiny, but crucial step to him becoming okay again. It’s going to take years for him to function properly, of course…many, many long years that might possibly hurt far more than the actual damage, but..._

 _Someday,_ Nico hoped quietly, looking down at the sleeping Italian angel. _Someday, these little victories will make the future easier to bear. Those single occasions of a different, more pleasant outcome will return the spark in his eyes—the one that was ripped away, mauled beyond recognition, extinguished as his soul was used, broken and repeatedly betrayed, over…and over…and over again…_

 _Someday it will return,_ Nico swore, wiping his tears.

"Someday."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed!  
> Love,  
> Bodhi
> 
> insta, tumblr: baku_bodhi  
> Haikyuu AO3: Lady_Iwaizumi


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